Long Way Home
by Calatia
Summary: Sam has to carry his brother home. And that must hurt like hell. Sam's point of view from Dean's last words in the warehouse until he decides to summon Crowley. Episode tag to 9x23 Do You Believe in Miracles.


**Short one-shot based on the fact that Sam and Dean meet up in Indiana during 'Do You Belive in Miracles' and then have the final show down in the warehouse at some unknown location, which is probably still a good few hours' drive away from the bunker, where Sam puts Dean on his bed. So there is a huge chunk of time missing in the episode and my muse demanded me to fill the gap. Plus, I needed an outlet for my Winchester feels…. **

**The general idea came when **Jared was asked during JiBcon what Sam's motivation was to summon Crowley. (Don't remember the exact question, but something like that...) He said that he thinks Sam is spiralling out of control and grasping. I tried to capture that in this fic. ****

**Warnings: Umm, yeah, so this is basically Sammy angst, unadulterated and unashamed, no plot to distract from the pain! Tissue Alert!**

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Pain. All consuming agony is shooting down to his very core. Sam finds himself sitting on the filthy floor, but he has no memory of how he got there. His fists are clutched into the fabric of his brother's shirt, knuckles white from the force and red from Dean's blood. He knows he should be doing something, anything, move, get Dean out, pull himself together, but he can't find the strength to even open his eyes. Opening them and seeing the lifeless body of his brother would make this real. And Sam isn't ready for that. Hell, he will never be ready for that…

All he wants is for time to stop, right here and now, so he does not have to face this new reality. But he needs to be strong. He needs to keep it together for Dean. His brother, whose last words were how proud he was of them. And that is the highest praise that Sam has ever received. The closest to actually hearing 'I love you' that he will ever get.

His frame shakes with fresh sobs and fresh tears soak into the soft fabric of Dean's shirt. Why were they always so stubborn? Why had they never taken the time to tell each other how much they really cared? And now it is too late. Sam hopes that his brother knew. Knew that despite all the fighting, despite all the hurtful things he had said, he loved Dean with all his heart. And now this heart is broken, shattered into a thousand pieces. He briefly ponders if one can really die from a broken heart, but then dismisses the thought. This isn't what Dean would want.

The world around him shifts back into focus as he forces his erratic breathing under control. Taking in a large gulp of air, he tightens his arms around Dean, drawing strength from his brother's simple presence. He hiccups as he grows more aware of his surroundings and blinks the last tears from his eyes. They can't stay here. Metatron might be back, but more importantly, they need to get back home.

Home. No matter how hard he resisted it in the past, Sam now thinks of the bunker as home. Unlike Dean, who had started nesting the moment they had moved in, Sam needed more time. He never lived in the comfort of a home for an extended period of time, and the few times he tried, it had ended disastrously. And now that he was finally feeling at home, fate dealt him another blow. As if he hadn't suffered enough. As if he hadn't lost enough.

Stretching his aching limbs, Sam slowly disentangles himself from Dean, carefully rearranging his brother's body in his arms. He barely feels the weight in his arms as he stands up. The adrenaline is still pumping through him and gives him the strength to carry his sibling.

They are out of the old factory in no time, but once they step out into the open, Sam finds himself surrounded by the homeless community. The hostility is palpable in the air, and the hunter has no free hand to reach for the gun tucked away in his waistband. But Sam couldn't care less, his mission is to get Dean back home, and the bunch of angry people in front of him is simply in his way.

He raises his head and glares at the ringleader in front of him. Something in his face must have conveyed the right message, because the man lowers his head and steps aside. The muttering crowd is parting and Sam steps forward, pushing through the masses easily. He leaves the compound swiftly, never looking back and he knows that he will never ever return there.

The walk back to the Impala seems endless and what he jogged in a couple of minutes earlier, now takes him much longer. The weight in his arms seems heavier with every step and not only because he is getting tired. With reality sinking in, the tears start flowing again. This time they are quiet, no sobs break the monotonous sound of his solitary steps that echo through the empty road. Another fact that is just wrong. Usually he can hear his brother's heavy boots next to him, now the silence is driving him mad.

Sam finally reaches the Impala and settles his brother on the backseat, wrapping an old blanket around his bloody chest. 'No blood on the leather seats!' The drill is still fresh in his mind, and Dean will never forgive him if he neglects his car.

Settling himself into the driver's seat, his eyes fall onto the cassette tape that is sticking out of the radio. One of Dean's favourites, Metallica. Sam is not prepared for the impact this innocent little item has. His vision blurs and it feels as if his insides are on fire, burning through him in an endless wave of searing pain. Feeling comfortable and safe enough inside the Impala, he gives in and lets the last remaining walls crumble, helpless as his chest constricts forcefully and all strength leaves him. He doubles over, hugging the hard wheel in front of him for support as he allows himself to fall apart.

People say that they go numb from grief. Right now, he would give anything for that numbness, for only a little relief from the bone crushing pain that consumes him. What he feels is too much, it's an overwhelming mix of physical pain, grief, loneliness and despair. Not to forget the feeling of utter failure. Metatron has escaped, and Sam can only hope that Cas and Gadreel will take care of the egomaniac angel. Hope that the angels are able to pick up from where the humans failed. Where he has failed. And where Dean paid the ultimate price.

Sam pushes the ball of his hands over his eyes, trying to stop the endless flow of tears. Pathetic. Weak. He can hear his father's voice in his mind, disappointment evident in every word. Despair floods through him as he remembers the many occasions where he had let his family down, there are too many to count. And now they are all gone. Because of him. Because he wasn't stronger.

But he remembers that he has one last task. He has to bring Dean home, and he will not fail his brother again. Sam snivels and uses his sleeves to clean up the mess that is his face. Refusing to look at his appearance in the mirror, he yanks the key in the ignition and starts the car.

xxx

The drive back to the bunker takes hours. Sam's mind is focussed on the street, reading every road sign, calculating possible shortcuts and looking for every distraction he can find so he does not have to think about the body in the back seat.

Still, he has to stop the car twice on the way. Once to fill up the tank, and the other time because his coping mechanism fails him. Despite his carefully planned route, he passes a town where he and Dean had stayed before. The memory crashes over him with such force that he barely manages to bring the Impala to a screeching halt. Angry honking reminds him that he's not alone on the road, but he can't find the will to care. Breathing hard, he stumbles out and leans against the sleek car for support. He tilts his spinning head up towards the dark night sky, seeking solace in the endless space. But it isn't really dark and his eyes widen in surprise. The canvas above him is littered with millions of bright stars, illuminating the scenery around him in ghostly, but soft light.

Sam's breathing hitches at the sight. He's forgotten the simple beauty of a clear night, far away from bright city lights. He remembers all the times when he was stargazing with Dean, quiet times of relaxation that both brothers shared and cherished. He remembers Dean telling him that their mom had her own star, always watching over her sons. Of course that had been years ago, before he learnt the truth about science and the family business. But he always retained his fascination with the night sky. Even though he knows the truth, he just likes to imagine that all the stars are actually souls looking out for their loved ones. And one of them is his brother now, reunited with the rest of their extended family...

Suddenly he can breathe again. The weight on his chest is lifted, and even though he knows that he is nowhere near over it, it's enough to give him a short reprieve. He imagines Dean in heaven, surrounded by happy memories and a small smile flickers over his lips. Maybe he can do this. Maybe there is a way for him to survive on his own. Maybe. Could

He gets back into the Impala and continues the rest of his journey home.

xxx

By the time he reaches the bunker, it is bright daylight and Sam is grateful for the garage that will shield him from prying eyes as well as the bright and happy sun. He really is more in a dark and gloomy mood and the dim garage is a welcoming sight. He lifts Dean back out of the car as gently as he possibly could, and sets him down on one of the spotless workbenches, wondering what to do next. He isn't ready to burn or bury his brother just yet. The last time -, god, since when did it get normal to bury your brother more than once? Well, the last time Dean had died Bobby had been pushing him to make a quick decision, but now it is just him, and he would take all the time he needs.

Deep in thoughts, Sam unconsciously rakes his hand through Dean's hair and only when his fingers get caught between the sticky strands does he realise that he should clean away all the blood and gore first. Even in death, no one deserves to be filthy.

Glad to have a simple task to focus on, he returns with a bowl of warm water and a soft cloth. Taking the cloth, he carefully cleans up Dean's face, washes away the dried blood. With every swipe, the wounds on his brothers face become more visible, the handsome features now tainted by cuts and bruises, and it breaks Sam's heart to know that they will never heal. He ignores the tears that are silently falling down his chin, mixing with the now crimson water in the bowl. He won't stop until his job is complete, even if it is tearing him apart.

Once he is done, Sam puts one hand against Dean's face, mirroring his brother's earlier motion. He swallows hard and blinks through the tears, lips quivering and deep lines of sorrow twisting his face. Sam remains in this position for a long time, silently saying good bye to his brother. Then he straightens up, wipes his face with a decisive motion and picks Dean up for the last part of the journey.

As he deposits the body onto the bed, Sam can feel the moisture building up in his eyes again, but he is determined not to let the tears spill. No more, he is done with the crying. Taking a shaky breath, he looks one last time at Dean's still form, then reins his emotions in and turns to leave the room. He knows that if he stays he will break down again.

He walks through the dim and quiet corridors, mind mulling over memories, expecting to hear Dean shout out at him to get ready for a hunt, or to find him in the kitchen, fixing them something to eat. But he is alone and the loss is burning through his every cell. There are no words for the hollow emptiness inside of him, the hole in his chest threatens to overwhelm him and he just wants to forget. To numb this agony. Right now, breathing, living, thinking, it is all too much.

His eyes fall on the bottle of whiskey that Dean always kept handy. Running on autopilot, he makes his way over, takes the bottle and a glass and settles himself in at one of the desks, in feeble hope that the alcohol might numb his ache. He grimaces, who is he kidding? He knows from experience that the alcohol will dampen the pain, but will not do anything for the large, hollow pit inside of him. No amount of drinking will ever be able to fill it, and Sam is left wondering how someone can live like this. Move on.

He had been to this point before, during his run-in with the trickster, and again when Dean went to hell, and later when he lost his brother to purgatory. But those times were different. With the trickster he had anger and revenge fuelling him and driving him on, turning him into a ruthless killer. With Dean in hell he had his hatred for Lilith that drove him into the arms of Ruby and that turned out to be a massive disaster. And while Dean was lost to purgatory, he felt strangely calm. There was nothing and no one left to tie him down to the life of a hunter, and he took his chance to go back to a normal life. Again, with less than stellar results. He is a failure without Dean. Whatever he tries, whatever he touches, unerringly turns bad.

Sam puts the glass up to his lips and tastes the strong liquor. Hesitating for the briefest moment, he quickly downs the entire glass and relishes the burning sensation it leaves behind. Sitting quietly, he lets the alcohol burn its way through his system. And then downs another glass because it still hurts.

Thoughts become fuzzy, and Sam slowly sinks into the hazy reality that the alcohol is creating in his mind. Vast emptiness and shattering loneliness great him like old friends. And suddenly his path is clear to him. He is of no use alone, a failure as a hunter, unable to live a normal life and not to be trusted to find friends and allies. Without Dean, he is more of a danger than an asset. And this time he will not make the same mistake.

Driven by the alcohol-induced logic and blind to anything else, he makes his way down to the dungeon, ready to do whatever it takes to get his brother back. Because he has nothing to lose. And because there is no alternative. Without Dean, there is no Sam. He realizes now that this is an universal truth for both of them. And he finds that he doesn't care anymore, he doesn't want to fight against it any longer and he certainly doesn't want to be alone.

With a heavy sigh, he steps into the dungeon.

"Damn it, Crowley. You got him into this mess. You will get him out… or so help me, God."

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